


Take Advantage of His Nicesoscity (A Door Word)

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Benedict has a new friend, Budding Romance, Chatting & Messaging, Clueless person, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Jealousy, London Underground, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Tom Plays Tour Guide, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t know her. Stranded captain,” Ben said, gathering up the take away containers that smelled delicious. Even if they were stone cold and likely empty. </p><p>Tom blinked. “Where’d you find her?”</p><p>“A Tube station.”</p><p>“You simply felt the need to go out and find a service member in a Tube station? The American service at that,” Tom added, slowly getting to his feet. He cracked his neck and ran a hand through his unruly hair. </p><p>“Well, I couldn’t find a British one,” Ben easily replied, binning the left overs. “Door sent me for her.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Advantage of His Nicesoscity (A Door Word)

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Any time I see the icon on Skype as online, I message Door.

I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s a stress reliever. Even if it’s just a few sentences, I feel a little lighter, a little more smiley. The tension I carry around melts away and I laugh. 

It is truly amazing what laughing will fix. One of the reasons I adore working with Martin— he’s hilarious. Except when he’s serious. Then he is serious. 

Luckily he can go from one extreme to another— unlike Door. I believe she’s set at hilarious. 

Tonight, after a long day filming Sherlock, I’m thrilled to be in a comfortable bed and not filming at night. We’ve had night shoots the past couple nights. They are long, cold and annoying.

I hate filming at night. I’d rather film in the daytime and have the marvel of technology turn it night. 

My annoyance melts away the moment the chat window pops up before my eyes. 

**CricketHeidi: You up?**

**747t38b2C112: At the moment. Why?**

**CricketHeidi: Pamela’s European tour is a disaster. I have a feeling…she’s not having fun.**

I know a little about Door’s friend Pamela. Mostly she’s a pilot in the Air Force, the only person in the Air Force besides her husband Door talks to, and her partner in crime for watching things on Masterpiece Theater. Recently, Pamela decided to take two weeks and tour Europe before moving to Texas on her own a la Samantha Brown. 

(Who I had to wiki, as I had no idea who that was. She’s a woman who had a show about touring Europe and she was “alone.”) 

(Meaning she had a whole film crew with her and randomly knew people in the cities she traveled to.) 

**747t38b2C112: What makes you say that?**

**CricketHeidi: Well, think about anything that could go totally wrong and it’s gone wrong. I think she spent last night on a bench. She’s almost thirty years old and she’s sleeping on benches in Paris!!!! I don’t even know why because she won’t tell me. However, I got something to ask ya.**

**747t38b2C112: Yes?**

**CricketHeidi: I know y’all are filming in London at some point, might you be there next week?**

**747t38b2C112: We might.**

**CricketHeidi: If she gets stranded in London, might if I send her your way? I know that’s asking a lot, but you’re totally full of nicesoscity and I have a feeling she might need that by that point.**

Oh, how I love those made up words. 

**CricketHeidi: London isn’t even on her list of places to visit, but I think her flight home is out of London. And if things go as they are, she’s going to be…well, screwed.**

**747t38b2C112: Does she always have this much bad luck?**

I hope she doesn't, as she flies for a living. I can only imagine the headaches she must have if she did.

**CricketHeidi: No. Usually her flights are flawless. Unlike Jay, she’s never gotten stranded somewhere more than a few days. I don’t know what is going on, but every time I get an email, it’s a huge disaster. Last email detailed sleeping in some park in Paris, ah-la 13 Envelopes. I’m amazed she’s still sane. She’s anally organized.**

**747t38b2C112: Well, if she needs something, I’ll help out, of course. I feel as if I know her by how well you speak of her.**

**CricketHeidi: Are you seriously real?**

**747t38b2C112: I believe so. My mother assures me I’m real. I must be.**

**CricketHeidi: Well, okay. As long a you’re real. Wouldn’t want to send Pamela to a non-real person. She might not even take you up on your offer of a bed. I don’t know why her hotel reservations keep falling through. Or she keeps missing trains. She missed her train again this morning. I’m kind of worried.**

**747t38b2C112: I know. I can tell.**

I’m somewhat worried because Door is worried. From what I know of Pamela, she must be seriously freaking out if she’d 1) admitting to Door her trips are disasters and 2) Door feels the need to worry. 

Door is not the type to worry.  

**CricketHeidi: Well, that’s all I wanted. To make sure if I foist her upon you, you’d take her in from the cold. I’m going to try to get her to go to London ahead of her original plan, but I don’t know if that’ll work. Likely not.**

**747t38b2C112: It’ll be fine. Just let me know when she’s in town, even if I’m not there. I can get my PA to let her into the flat if need be.**

**CricketHeidi: Thanks, Ben. You’re seriously sent from above.**

I smile.

I didn’t imagine three months ago when I met the girl with the strange looking dog I’d wind up friends with her and we’d carry out a long distance friendship via Skype messages and blog comments. I never imagined I’d find this person who was obsessed with a good friend of mine, created leather purses in blinding colors, and made up her own words yet would fail a spelling test and wind up friends with this strange person.  

Friends.

While I do not need more friends, I do like the fact she’s not in the business and she’s my friend. She’s on the outside looking into the life and her view is refreshing. 

And she doesn’t hold back.

She doesn’t give a crap that I’m Benedict Cumberbatch. She has never requested information on Tom (oddly enough), or anyone else I know who is famous. The only favor she’s asked is if I’d look after Pamela if she gets stranded in London. 

I kind of want Pamela to be stranded in London.

I want to meet her.

* * *

Pamela is gorgeous. Even though she is haggard, looks like she might have been rolled over by a lorry at some point, needs a shower, and smells kind of like a bin, she’s utterly gorgeous. 

Luckily, she’s so out of it she’d failed to notice the fact I keep staring at her as we ride in the taxi back to my flat from the station I retrieved her from. 

“I don’t know if that’s near you or not, but could you go get her before they close the Tube? Do they close the Tube?” Door’s worried filled voice asked over the phone line. 

(She’d called my mobile via Skype to inform me Pamela was in town.)

(And the Tube does close at roughly 12.30 in the morning. It’s about to close when I found Pamela outside the station.) 

“I don’t know what to say,” Pamela says, sounding small and lost as she stares out the window in slight awe at the sight of London at night. 

She is small. She’s tiny. I cannot believe this tiny creature flies a C-17. Or did. 

“You don’t need to say anything,” I assure her.

She clings to the beat up looking backpack, the kind you see uni students using to backpack around Europe. The taxi comes to a halt outside the flat and I take the bag from her, surprised she’s able carry this thing. It weighs probably as much as she does. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes as I get out of the cab and attempt to put the heavy backpack on. 

“It’s no problem,” I assure her for what feels like the millionth time since I went off to the tube station to get her. 

I pay the driver and motion for Pamela to follow me into the building. The doorman opens the door, nodding at me and eyeing Pamela. I hear Pamela’s footsteps as she follows me across the lobby. 

“I’m so sorry,” Pamela restates, trailing behind me. 

“No need to apologize. Let’s just get you upstairs and in bed,” I say, showing her to the lift. Usually I take the stairs, but she looks like she might keel over at any moment. 

Pamela remains silent till I unlock the door to the flat and show her in. She takes one step in and asks, “Are you sure?”

“You’re not a bother,” I assure her. 

I indicate she ought to step in further. She does and I shut the door. She stares into the lounge.

“Are you sure? This is strange.”

She wrings her hands together. I put on a warm smile and assure her that it’s not strange.

“You’re famous.”

“You’re a pilot.”

“I’ve never met you.”

“I haven’t met you,” I tell her. 

I don’t tell her I feel like I know her from chatting with Door. I feel like I know Door’s husband as well. I’m not sure how these two people even can get along with Door. Door has very little in common with either pilot, yet they are the people closest to her.  

“You’ve only met Door for like five minute,” Pamela mutters. She takes a few more steps into the flat. “I can’t believe I let her talk me into this.”

“It’s not really a problem,” I assure her. “I have a guest bedroom.” 

She turns to me and gazes at me through her large, chocolate eyes. Her eyes are huge, doe like and filled with how tired and stressed out she currently finds herself. She is in desperate need of a shower, a bed and a meal. She turns back to the lounge, eyes falling on the figure on the couch.

Oh. I forgot about him.

“I think you’ve got a guest already,” she comments, her tone suddenly more wry than tried.

I can almost see her loosen from the tight ball. Does she know who that is?

“Eh. He doesn’t count,” I assure her. “He zonked out from a combination of hunger and exhaustion.”

Tom came over and promptly fell asleep. I am not even sure why he dropped by other than to take a nap. We had caught up before I started filming Sherlock and I honestly did not think I’d see him again till after I was done with Sherlock and promoting _Star Trek_. He surprised me by texting and asking if I had a moment to hang out.

So, he took a nap and I read the script for tomorrow. 

“Hunger?” Pamela asks, looking confused. 

“He’s doing this thing for UNICEF. He has to live on less than a pound a day,” I report. 

I take a few more steps in the flat, heading for the hall. Pamela doesn’t follow at first. I indicate she needs to follow. She glances at the back of Tom’s head once more before following me to the hall. 

“I hope you mean weight and not money,” she says quietly.

“No, I meant money. I think everything’s just catching up with him. He’s been asleep since he sat down,” I explain with a quiet snort.

I wish I was asleep. Though, not really. I smile down at Pamela as we enter the darkened hall. I lead her down to the room, opening the door. I flick the light on and set the backpack down on the chair.

“This is it. Not much. Loo’s right there. Private. No need to share with me,” I say, chuckling. 

She looks grateful. 

“And if you’re worried, the door locks. Not that I think my guest will wake.”

Pamela looks at me with a strange expression, but nods. 

“Well, I put fresh towels in the loo the other day, so I think everything is in order. I’ve got an early call tomorrow, but you feel free to do whatever you must, okay?”

“You’re too nice.”

“I know. I’ve been told,” I chuckle. “I’ll see you either tomorrow night or in the morning if you manage to get up before I leave.”

“I’ll likely be up,” she says. “I tend to wake at ungodly hours when I don’t need to. Are you sure this if—” 

“I’m glad to have you. Any friend of Door’s is a friend of mine. Especially one who isn’t freaking out about me, just the situation.”

“I only know who you are because Door told me a million times while she was trying to convince me to take you up on your offer and to not call you Elf Guy. Oh, god, I called you Elf Guy.”

“I’ve been called worse,” I assure her. 

“How did you find me?”

“Door told me where you were,” I reply.

She sighed. “Thank god she knew where I was. I sure as hell didn’t.” 

“How did you contact Door, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Pay phone. I found a pay phone and I had a phone card,” she said. “I called her. On a pay phone.” 

Pamela blinks and her eye lids look heavy. I quickly tell her goodnight and allow her to be alone. Shutting the door, I pause for a moment and wait. The lock doesn’t click over right away. I hear the lock on the toilet click as the shower starts. 

I turn and head to see if I can get Tom off my couch. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

His head felt fuzzy. Bleary. Off kilter. 

And his stomach…it grumbled, twisted and pulsed. 

Why was he so tired? 

Why was he so hungry?

“You’re not a bother,” a deep voice said somewhere to his left.

Or right.

Tom wasn’t sure which way was left or right at the moment. He was groggy, starving, and misplaced. 

Clearly. 

Where was he?

“Are you sure?” an American female voice inquired. “This is strange.”

“It is only strange if you let it.”

“You’re famous.”

“You’re a pilot.”

“I’ve never met you.”

“I haven’t met you.”

“You’ve only met door for like five minutes,” the women said.

Door? How does one meet a door? And had that person meant “door” as a proper noun or did she simply have horrid grammar? 

“I can’t believe I let her talk me into this,” the woman grumbled, weariness in her tone suddenly. There was a lull in the conversation and something thudded to the floor. 

“It’s really not a problem. I have a guest bedroom,” the deeper voice said. 

He sounded amused.

“I think you’ve got a guest already,” the woman observed, her tone wry and tired now. 

Tom needed to open his eyes. Roll over. Go home. He clearly wasn’t at his flat. Smelled wrong. And there were two strange people here. Okay, one strange person. He was pretty sure the guy was Ben.

Why was Tom so addlepated? What had happened? He was not drunk. The hangover was absent and the floaty, no care in the world, bleary feeling of alcohol was lacking in lieu of the hangover.  

Tom mostly felt like he’d been enfettered and then run over by a lorry. 

“Eh. He doesn’t count. He passed out from a combination of hunger and exhaustion,” Ben explained. 

“Hunger?”

“He’s doing this thing for UNICEF. He has to live on less than a pound a day,” Ben explained, moving further into the flat. Smaller footsteps followed. 

“I hope you mean weight and not money,” the female’s voice said, getting farther away.

“No, I meant money,” Ben responded. “I think everything’s just catching up with him. He’s been asleep since he sat down.” 

A door opened and the voices started again, but now Tom couldn’t understand what they were saying. Slowly, he pried his eyelids open to find himself staring at the back of a brown leather couch. He blinked at it a few times before pushing himself up. 

Yeah, he’d clearly been hit by a lorry. 

His head felt like a mare’s nest. 

Tom looked to the left and to the right, his mind trying to wrap around what he was doing at Ben’s flat.

Ben was busy. Like insanely busy. He was doing about ten different things at once, backed up right next to one another. Tom thought his schedule was overkill, but it was nothing like Ben’s. 

Granted, Ben was bowing out of quite a few awards shows while Tom seemed to be going to an awful lot of awards shows. 

Tom focused on the dregs of Ben’s meal on the coffee table, the glass of water he’d drunk, then the copy of a script. It was open to whatever scene Ben had to film tomorrow. Ben’s chicken scratch handwriting was all over the script. There was also several stick figures drawn. Tom leaned forward and peered at the figures.

They were in a different hand, so clearly Martin had gotten a hold of Ben’s script. 

Roughly, Tom ran a hand over his face a few times to wake himself up. 

His stomach gave off a rather loud sounding growl. He stared at his midsection. 

“So, Sleeping Beauty awakes!” Ben announced, walking back into the lounge. “Good nap?”

“How long have I been asleep? Why did you let me sleep so long? What time is it? Don’t you need to be up early tomorrow? First day on location in London and all,” Tom reminded his friend. 

“Let’s see. You’ve been asleep for almost six hours, I let you sleep because you look as exhausted as I feel, it’s about one in the morning, and yes, I do need to be up early.” 

“Was there another person here a moment ago?”

“Yes.”

“Who? She sounded female.”

“You don’t know her. Stranded captain,” Ben said, gathering up the take away containers that smelled delicious. Even if they were stone cold and likely empty. 

“Captain? Captain of what? America?”

“Close. The United States Air Force.”

Tom blinked. “Where’d you find her?”

“A Tube station.”

“You simply felt the need to go out and find a service member in a Tube station? The American service at that,” Tom added, slowly getting to his feet. He cracked his neck and ran a hand through his unruly hair. 

“Well, I couldn’t find a British one,” Ben easily replied, binning the left overs. “Door sent me for her.”

“Door?” Tom asked, as his stomach growled again. “A door sent you?” 

Ben eyed Tom’s midsection for a moment, then looked back up at Tom. “Yes. That girl I met when I was stranded in Texas a few months back. We’ve been chatting. Her friend was stranded in London and due to the fact she’s been having a rotten trip, Door asked if it was fine if she stayed over.”

“And because you’re a nice guy, you said yes,” Tom concluded.

Ben chuckled and picked up his script. “Of course.”

“How long is she going to be here for, then?” Tom inquired.

“A few days. Her flight was cancelled, then she missed the one tonight because she was trapped on a train,” Ben explained. “Sounded like a nightmare. While she’s used to not sleeping in a proper bed, Door seemed to think she needed a bed. You’d agree if you saw her. She looked worse than you did when you tumbled through the door.”

Tom nodded. “Want me to stay?”

Ben stared at Tom as if he were crazy.

“Don’t you have to be home to feed yourself?” Ben inquired. “Maybe I should join you in this one pound a day diet you’re doing. I can’t eat much and it’s a good cause.”

“I know. I told you to do it with me,” Tom reminded Ben. 

Ben was on a strict diet to maintain his “Sherlock body.” In order to keep him operating, he had a rigid list of things he had to eat each day in order not to pass out. Tom was pretty sure take away wasn’t on that list, but Ben had ordered it whilst Tom was dead to the world on the couch so he’d been unable to mock him for caving to temptation. 

“I’d rather stay,” Tom admitted, sinking back onto the couch. He honestly didn’t want to figure out how to get home. It seemed much too difficult to deal with at the moment. “I’m knackered.”

He flopped backwards back on to the couch. 

“Don’t you have to be somewhere tomorrow?”

“No. Thursday I’ve got the ITV morning talk show to talk about Below the Line,” Tom said. 

“Well, if you’re not going anywhere…”

Ben crossed the room and flipped the lock on the front door. He retired to the back of the flat. Stretching out his full height, he was thankful Ben was tall. This meant he’d bought a super long couch. 

“Here.”

Something soft landed on Tom’s face. Pulling it away, he found Ben had given him a pillow and a blanket. 

“Bless you,” Tom said, opening the blanket up.

“You know where the loo is, right?”

“Yes, Benedict,” Tom drawled. “Now go to sleep.”

“Yes, Thomas,” Ben drawled right back, injecting the same upper class tones Tom had used. 

Tom rolled back around and closed his eyes. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Tom is still on the couch.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize for the millionth time.

Where are my shoes? 

“Stop apologizing, Benedict.”

“I’m a horrible host,” I say, ignoring the fact she’s calling me Benedict even though I told her to call me Ben. Door had mentioned Pamela tends to call people by their full names, as she detests being called anything other than Pamela. She tried to call Door Dorothea when they first met.

It did not go over well with Door. 

“Go to work,” Pamela says, eyeing Tom’s sleeping form.

“But—”

“I’m in the military,” she says, turning back to me. She’s wearing a grin.

She thinks she can take Tom if need be. Tom’s taller than I am and currently not trying to be a skinny twig of a man as I am. 

“You’re in the Air Force,” I remind her. 

“But, I’m a pilot,” Pamela says as if it explains everything. “So, I know how to do more than paperwork.”

I think I missed a joke in there.

“I’ll just wait a minute…” I trail off wondering if I ought to kick Tom in the head to get him to leave. 

I need shoes to leave. 

I’m still not sure why I didn’t kick Tom out last night. He woke up the moment I came back from showing Pamela the guest bedroom. It feels wrong to leave Pamela alone in the flat with an unknown man— even if it’s Tom the Nicest Guy on the Planet Who Would Likely Take a Bullet for a Stranger than Do Harm. 

Oh, be honest with yourself, Benedict. You know why you don’t want to leave her alone with Tom.

Maybe that is why I cannot find any shoes? Other than Pamela’s, which are much too tiny to fit my big toe.

“Go to work, Benedict Cumberbatch,” Pamela says as if she’s speaking to a child. 

She is also holding a pair of my shoes. 

“I’ll wake him up,” I offer, taking the shoes from her. 

“I thought you were the one who said he was exhausted.”

Oh, now she wants to let him sleep. A moment ago she was looking at him as if he were some sort of bug that might attack.

“I should wake him up,” I insist, taking a few steps towards him. I can throw a shoe at him. “He’s been sleeping for almost ten hours, well, other than the five minutes he was awake after you got here.”

Pamela smiles— a breath taking smile. Why is this woman in the freaking Air Force? She ought to use her— when did I become shallow? 

Get a grip.

Put your shoes on your feet. 

“You’re just jealous of him and his mad sleeping skills,” Pamela teases.

Oh, that and so much more. 

There is an inkling somewhere in my overly crowded mind that doesn’t want me to leave her alone with Tom I Have an Army of Fan Girls Hilddleston. 

(Yes, I know I have my own fangirls. But they are NOTHING like his fangirls. Mine are sane. Well, saner.)

I snort. Pamela chuckles quietly. 

“If Steven Moffat kills you because you’re late, it’ll be on your head,” Pamela reminds me.

Bloody hell. She’s right. I was late yesterday (and almost every day before that). 

I cram my feet into the shoes she gave me. I look around for my coat. 

Where is my bloody coat?

Oh, right. I hung it up. 

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, gathering my belongings. 

Coat is on, keys are in my hand, script is in my bag. Check. Oh, I have that extra key somewhere. I dig through the bowl next to the door till I unearth the spare key. 

“Here’s a key. If you decide to leave. There’s a man at the door. I’ll let him know who you are. He’ll buzz you into the main building. Uh…I think that’s all. If you find food, feel free to eat it. I’m not sure what’s I’ve got in.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” she insists, shooing me out the door.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “I left my number on the fridge. I’ve got a landline. Feel free to use it. I think that’s all.” 

“What’s his name?” she whispers, pointing at Tom.

“Tom—” 

I stop from saying his last name only because she pushes me out the door. 

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.” 

And she shuts the door in the my face. For a moment I wonder if I ought to storm back in there and drag Tom off the couch, but my phone dings and reminds me I’m late. 

Bloody hell. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

Tom woke up with a start and it was due to the fact his stomach demanded sustenance. Dragging himself to sit up, he ran his hands over his face a few times. His stomach made another noise of protest for the lack of food in it.

Man, this was hard. He’d have to get home before he could eat— mostly because he’d all ready bought all his food for the week, thus spending his pound a day. Though, if he ate a bit of bread or something here couldn’t hurt…he’d just not eat a slice of toast out of his own stock. 

Yeah…that could work. 

“What the hell?”

Tom’s head snapped up.

“Stupid, complicated, evil contraption,” muttered a female voice. 

Tom eased himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen. He poked his head through the doorway to find a rather short female studying the old fashion coffee machine Ben owned. The woman was wearing simple, yet fitted clothing showing off her rather boyish figure. The sunlight flowed through the window nearby, highlighting the blonde stripes through her light brown/dark blonde hair that was tossed into a haphazard ponytail. 

The simplicity of her appearance was like a breath of fresh air and Tom felt himself smiling a little watching her futz with the coffeemaker. 

“And I thought the coffee machines at work were complicated,” she muttered, whacking the contraption before her. “You’d think he’d have one of those thousand dollar cup things. Easy-peasy-weasy and wha-la! Coffee!” 

She yanked something out of the machine, making a clattering noise that did not sound good.

“Oops. How’d…”

“Need assistance?” Tom asked, leaning against the doorjamb. He smiled, wearing his most charming one he had in his arsenal. 

The woman turned around. He expected her to jump or seem startled, but she looked at him rather blankly. She was quite pretty, with rather large, doe-like brown eyes. She wore no makeup, but was tan like so many other Americans tended to be year round. She looked healthy and athletic, though, instead of orange and skinny. 

The longer Tom looked at her, the more American the woman appeared. It was strange. Tom had met many American actresses through his work. There was always something about these people that pin-pointed them as American. Sometimes it was a big thing like the shade of blonde their hair was dyed, the way they moved or the way they wore their clothes. More often it was something little that he didn’t really notice till he’d been around the person long enough to speak to him or her.  

Something about the woman before him screamed AMERICAN like no one else he’d met before. She was wearing basic clothing: black yoga pants, a white shirt, and a black zipped up cotton sweatshirt. She was barefoot, wore no jewelry and other than knowing she was American by hearing her speak, there was nothing remotely on her that shouted AMERICAN (well, other than her highlight job). But, she screamed AMERICA more so than Chris Evans in his Captain America costume. 

Hell, he was sure she could speak with a British accent and there still be no mistaking her for anything except an American— no matter how good the accent was. 

During the time he spent staring at her, she took him in as well. Her face was still blank and he could tell she had no idea who he was. Clearly, Ben hadn’t bothered to tell her. 

And like the simplicity of her appearance, it was like a breath of fresh air. While he was thankful for his fans and adored them to no end, it was rare these days someone female had no clue who he was. The air in the kitchen seemed fresher, brighter and sweeter suddenly. 

It made him smile larger. 

“Good morning,” she greeted, small smile on her face. Her dark eyes scanned Tom’s face. She looked a bit dazed by the fact he was still smiling at her with his all out beamer smile. She turned back to the coffee machine. “You know how to work this thing? I ground up the beans and put them in the right thingamabob. I think. Is Benedict a coffee snob? He had a hand grinder. I didn’t think they made those things.”

“I don’t think he is,” Tom admitted, pushing himself off the doorjamb. The woman looked at him over her shoulder. “I think he enjoys doing things the old fashion way. I’m amazed he has beans. He usually runs late, so he grabs his coffee from Starbucks. His mum got him this thing. I think for aesthetics.”

The woman sighed, rolled her eyes and turned back around, her low ponytail swishing across her shoulder blades. She watched him approach out of the corner of her eye, pushing a piece of hair that had escaped behind her ear. Deciding he was taking too long, she once again tried to jam the expresso press into machine again. 

“Here, darling,” Tom said, taking it from her. “There’s a method to it, I’m sure.”

Tom stared at the machine. It had lots of knobs and leavers. Tom doubted Ben actually knew how to use the thing, but felt compelled to have it in his kitchen to please his mother. Luckily, Tom had crashed at Ben’s flat a few times since they’d met and one morning in desperate need of coffee figured the contraption out. 

Now, he just needed his slightly addled mind to remember. 

It took a few minutes, but his brain finally kicked into gear. 

“Ah! There we go,” Tom said, locking the press in place. “Do you have a cup?”

“Yeah,” she said, producing a china mug from the other side of the counter. “Do you need one? Took me twenty minutes to find them. You can tell he’s a bachelor.” 

She shook her head, the shorter bits of hair around her face flying out from behind her ears. 

“Even my aunt laid out her kitchen better and she has no idea how to cook let alone design a kitchen,” the woman went on.

“And you do?”

“You do not put the plates in the cabinets farthest from the dishwasher. You do not put the silverware nowhere near the plates, and the glasses above the stove. Don’t even get me started on the layout of her kitchen,” she complained with a small grin on her face. “At least his kitchen is laid out properly.” 

Tom had no opinion on kitchens, so he remained silent. He hit another button and he heard the machine kick into gear. He stuck her mug under the spout.

“I ground up enough for two cups,” she said. “Here.”

She produced another cup and offered it to him. He took it with a smile. She began talking before he could thank her. 

“Benedict mentioned you were doing something for UNICEF and couldn’t eat more than a pound a day. Or something. Maybe you had to live on less than a pound a day, not eat more than a pound,” she amended, heading to the other side of the island and throwing cabinets open. “What is it?”

“Pardon?”

“What are you’re doing? And why are you doing it? The pound a day thing.”

“Oh, uh, Below the Line. That’s what it’s called, Below the Line. For five days I have to eat on less than a pound a day,” Tom explained. “A pound sterling, not weight. Like, less than a dollar a day.”

He began to tell her all about his work with UNICEF. He handed her the mug filled with coffee, then filled a cup for himself. He mentally tried to figure out how much the cup would be based on the fact the beans Ben had cost almost seventeen pounds a bag. 

“Milk? Sugar? Cream? I don’t think he has cream,” the woman interrupted during a lull in his spiel, opening the fridge. “Why is this thing so small?”

“Is it?” Tom asked, turning to look at the rather large fridge/freezer Ben had in his kitchen. 

It was also alarmingly empty. No wonder he’d ordered take away the night before. 

“Oh. It’s normal, isn’t it?” she amended. “God, I’m out of it. I should know this. I fly around the world! I’ve been to Thailand, Australia, Japan! I’ve seen the fact we Americans have huge ass fridges.”

She shook her head, the loose strands of hair flying out from behind her ears again. She tucked them behind her ear and grabbed the milk. She sniffed it, made a face and looked around.

“Where’s his trash can?”

“The bin’s under the sink,” Tom offered, opening the near by cabinet door for her. 

She crossed and binned the spoiled milk. 

“You’d think he _was_ Sherlock. No milk, no food. All he needs are some eyeballs or a foot,” she grumbled mostly to herself. She leaned against the island and peered at Tom. “Anyways, so, you need to go home to eat?”

“I should,” Tom admitted. “But, uh…”

There was a list of reasons he didn’t want to leave.  1) He didn’t want to leave her alone in Ben’s flat, 2) he was so hungry at the moment he couldn’t think passed eating, and 3) he kind of liked this woman. She was just…so bleeding American, yet in an unfamiliar way. 

“I’m fine on my own,” she assured him, seeming to read his mind somewhat. “I figured I’d go back to bed. I need to get back to the States, but I don’t think I can handle dealing with the people at the airlines again today. I’ll take a day off. I can’t remember the last time I had a day off.”

She looked rather amazed. 

She was like Ben, only a pilot. Everyone needed a day off sometimes to simply enjoy life and Ben (Mr Workaholic) had left his guest alone in his flat while he worked the day away.  Granted, from what Tom remembered, Ben really hadn’t had much of a choice…but, that was besides the point. Ben could have dragged her along with him to set.  

Tom studied her as she cupped the mug in her tiny hands, her nails bare of varnish. She leaned forward on the island, resting her forearms on the worktop. 

“Did you find bread?” Tom heard himself ask. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Toast. Jam and butter. Toast,” the girl said, pushing herself upright. She set the mug down and rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. 

“I think you need to drink your coffee,” Tom suggested, sipping his cooling coffee.

“I did,” she replied, looking into her cup. “It’s empty and made me more spacey. Sorry. I have reached my limit of being jet lagged. Or awake. Or both. I’m not sure. But at some point, I get spacey.”

“That’s fine. I’ll make the toast. And I’ll need an egg.”

“I saw those. I don’t know if they’re expired. He did have them in the fridge, thank god,” she said, turning towards the fridge. “You don’t keep them in the fridge here. They’re just out in the grocery store on the shelves near the bread.”

Tom grinned at her, enjoying her random observations. He’d heard them before, had made a few of them himself— but hearing them from her was…nice. He liked the sound of her voice, the soft regional accent that her voice hinted at, and the cadence of her speech pattern. 

“Oh, god. I forgot to ask you your name,” she suddenly realized as she pulled the eggs out of the fridge. She turned to him, looking as if she was trying to remember something. “Benedict told me, but I’m having trouble remembering. I’m so sorry.” 

“You don’t know me?” Tom inquired innocently. He had deduced she had no clue who he was judging by the ease she was behaving around him and the blank expression that greeted his entrance to the kitchen. 

“Should I? Are you a famous philanthropist?”

“I wish, but no. I’m an actor.”

“Oh. Like Benedict,” she said, nodding. She looked a bit sheepish. “I am really out of touch with the world of entertainment. I simply can’t keep up. I didn’t honestly know who Benedict was, other than this guy who Door started chatting to after she ran into him at a park in San Antonio.” 

“You’ve not seen _Sherlock_?” 

“I have. Door and I watched it together over the phone when it was on PBS,” the woman explained. “We always watch stuff together on PBS. It’s Door’s thing: Masterpiece Theater. If it’s been on Masterpiece Theater in the past eighteen years, she’s seen it.” 

“Is that so?” Tom asked, raising his eyebrows up.

The woman nodded, setting the eggs next to the stove. 

“Last time I was really up to date on pop culture was when I was at pilot training,” the woman admitted, shrugging. “Door kept me up to date. Or tried to. I usually know popular songs, though I don’t know the artist. Or the title of the song. The guys I fly with always seem to know all the bad pop songs of the moment and they get trapped in my head. I was singing ‘Call Me Maybe’ all summer not actually knowing who recorded it. Door says you can always trust me to know the current top ten songs, yet have no clue who they are by. Or the actual titles of the songs.”

She laughed, looking a little embarrassed. Tom allowed a small grin to grace his lips. 

“Well, I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours,” Tom hedged. 

“Pamela.”

“Tom.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” she said, small smile on her face. She held out her hand. Tom took it and shook, then dragged her closer to do the proper European greeting. It was slightly awkward, as she clearly did not expect it. Tom carried through with swiftly and lightly kissing both cheeks. 

“Wonderful to meet you, Pamela,” Tom said when he let her go. She looked delightfully wrong footed. “Eggs? How do you take them?”

“I don’t, uh, care,” she said, sounding flustered. She blinked rather aggressively a few times before stepping around Tom. Tom smiled, turned and went to grab a pan (opposite end of the kitchen from the stove). He set it on the hob. He stared at the eggs, wondering if he should scramble or fry.  

“So, uh, what have you been in?” Pamela inquired, putting bread into the toaster. 

“These days it seems that everyone knows me thanks to Loki,” Tom admitted over his shoulder.

“Loki?” 

Pamela scrunched her nose up, cocked her head to the side and appeared bemused. Tom nodded, smiling largely at her.

“Heard of him?”

“Uh…was he in that superhero movie with more than one superhero?” she asked, turning her attention to finding some plates. (They were near the stove, but Tom figured he’d let her find them on her own.) 

“Loki was in two movies. _Thor_ and _The Avengers_.”

“Oh,” she said, finally coming to stand next to him. She got onto her tip toes and opened the cabinet above the stove. She was quite a bit shorter than Tom. She only came up to his shoulder without any shoes on. “Loki’s a god, right?”

She fell back to her heels. 

“Yes.”

“I think I saw those movies…somewhere hot,” she said, scratching her head and causing the shorter locks of hair to fall out of her ponytail. 

“You sound like me during a film promotion,” Tom commented. “I forget where I’ve been sometimes.”

“I think I was…oh, I likely at Altus,” Pamela remembered. “I hate Altus. Pointless to be there too.” 

“Why?”

“Because, I’m not flying the C-17 any longer and the last time they sent me there I knew it by that point,” she grumbled, getting back on her tiptoes to get the plates down as the toast popped up. 

Tom decided to leave that topic alone for the time being. 

Tom paid attention to the eggs till they were done. He scooped up a portion for himself and handed the rest to Pamela. 

“Can you have bread?”

“Yes. Ben gets the same bread I do, so I know the cost. Hand one over,” he ordered, grinning at her.

She handed him a slice and put the others on her plate. Tom was starved, but took the photo of his food to post later, then forced himself to eat slowly. He’d not be eating anything till lunch and that was hours away. 

“So, you’re Loki,” she said conversationally. “That was the…uh, one of the gods, right?”

“Yes, one of the gods,” he said, feeling rather amused. 

The woman was clueless. 

“There was more than one, right?” she asked. 

“Yes. There were only two in _The Avengers_ ,” Tom said, looking at her. She stared at him a moment, her cheeks going slightly pink. “Many more in _Thor._ ” 

“I fly planes for a living.”

“I gathered. What plane again?”

“I used to fly the C-17,” she grumbled, looking back down at her plate. “The last batch of assignments that came down were horrible for everyone. I got one of the better assignments. At least I’m still flying.”

“What…kind of plane is a C-17?” 

“Cargo. Large plane. Not the biggest, but it’s like a five story condo,” she said, looking back up at him. “I love telling people I fly it because they stare at me, then the plane and can’t believe I’d be able to fly something that gigantic.”

She grinned the most adorable grin. 

“I’ll be flying a training prop plane next. Based at the same spot Door and her husband are going.”

“Door and her husband?” Tom asked, eyebrows furrowing together. “Wait, aren’t they…oh.” 

Tom sat back a bit on the stool he was seated upon. How had he managed to forget that Ben had told him last night about her being an Air Force captain? And her connection to Door should have given it away as well, as Tom had known Door was a military wife. Anyone could deduce that from her Twitter updates over the past three years. (Yes, Tom had read them that far back during a long flight. They were amusing.) 

“What? Oh, did I forget to mention I’m in the Air Force? Sorry,” Pamela apologized, cheeks turning a bit pink. She looked down, pressing her lips together. She shook her head, giving him a tight smile when she looked up. “I always forget not everyone knows already. I’ve pretty much isolated myself in a little bubble.” 

“At least you’ve got a community,” Tom offered. “So, how long have you been in the Air Force?”

“Uh…five years now?” Pamela asked, rolling her eyes up to do the math. 

“Really?” 

She didn’t look old enough to have been in for five years. Then again, Door could pass for twelve and she was thirty. 

“Did you go to university?” Tom inquired, popping the last bit of toast into his mouth. 

“Of course. You have to be an officer to be a pilot,” Pamela said. “I was in ROTC, then sat around for nine months, a year of pilot training and then four months of training at Altus, then finally started my first assignment. And then kept going back to Altus for more training. I think I spent more time in Altus than I did in Seattle.”

“Did you, uh, study planes at university?” Tom asked, the sentence feeling awkward in his mouth. ‘Did you read aeroplanes?’ didn’t sound right at all, though.

“Sort of. I was an aeronautical engineering major. We know nothing about planes. We know how they fly, like the theory, but can’t fix a plane if our life depended on it. So, I know…why a plane flies and I might be able to design a plane.” 

“Do most pilots know how to fix their planes?”

“Well, no. Jason, Door’s husband, he got a degree that sounds fancy, but he was basically qualified to be an airplane mechanic at the end of the day. He knows loads more than I do about the actual planes we fly. He was familiar with them to a point it’s almost child’s play for him to fly the damn things.”

“Fascinating,” Tom admitted, even though he was more enjoying the look on her face as she spoke about something she was clearly passionate about. 

“Are you done?” 

Tom looked down at his plate to find it empty. He nodded and let her take the plate to the sink. He talked her out of doing the dishes and did them himself. He allowed her to dry them, but insisted he put them away. 

“So, you know Ben through Door, then?” Tom asked, putting the two plates back above the stove. 

“I guess. She told me I ought to take advantage of his nicesoscity,” Pamela said. 

“Nice-oz-city?”

Pamela looked up at him, appearing alarmed. “I did not just say that, did I?”

“You did, darling,” Tom laughed. The look on her face was priceless.

Pamela turned away, cheeks going a little pink. “I’ve been talking to Door a lot lately. Well, since she left Alaska and we began planning since we’d be in San Antonio roughly at the same time. Door was an English major who spells grammar wrong no matter what, so of course she makes up her own words all the time.”

“Does she spell those correctly?”

“Never,” Pamela assured. “I’m pretty sure she started going by Door because she couldn’t properly spell her own name.”

“What’s her actual name? Ben either calls her Door or Cricket.”

“Dorothea. She hates the name,” Pamela added. “She told me her name was Door and I honestly thought that her parents had named her Door Judoc.”

Tom raised his eyebrows upwards and laughed. When he was done, Pamela was giving him a rather thoughtful look. 

“What?”

“You’ve got a distinct laugh,” she remarked. 

“I’ve been told,” he dryly said. 

Pamela gave him a look and nodded. “Of course you have. I bet your fans adore that laugh.”

She laughed rather uncomfortably, suddenly remembering she was in the mists of someone famous. Tom felt the air in the room shift. 

“This is surreal,” she muttered, looking away. “You likely have somewhere to be, don’t you? I won’t keep you. I’ll be fine here.”

“No. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Oh, um, okay.”

“How long are you going to be in London? You never did give me a straight answer.”

“I don’t know. I have to be at Randolph on the sixteenth. Luckily, I padded in a few days. I assumed something would go horribly wrong.” Pamela snorted rather unladylike. “I had hoped to be in San Antonio by Thursday to find an apartment, but that’s not going to happen. Might just crash at an extended stay hotel. Door and Jason liked the one they stayed at for a few days before they found an apartment. I think I’ll do that. I can make a reservation online. God, sometimes I think my brain stopped working the moment I left Seattle.”

“Was that where you lived before Texas?”

“Yeah. Well, when I was there. I was deployed or on missions more often than not.”

“At least you saw the world.”

She snorted once more. “I saw military bases, lots of sand and the inside of a plane. I hardly ever saw the cities we flew into or near. You’d arrive, go to the hotel, find food, fall over, and repeat. Base hotels almost always suck and don’t give you Hilton points. Well, not all of them were bad. Some of the time we got the nice rooms when we’d drop by Japan. Germany has the best rooms, though.”

“Spend a lot of time in Germany?”

“Not really. Mostly either at the base or at the airport. It was always nice after going to Qatar to land in Germany. There was more than one color.”

“Kay-tar?” 

“Cutter.”

“Ah, Qatar. You ought to say it properly,” Tom teased. Pamela rolled her eyes. “What were you doing there?”

“Dropping stuff off. Also, I deployed there for a year like five-seconds after I arrived in Seattle.”

Tom nodded. “So you weren’t in Seattle often, then?”

Pamela shook her head, the loose strands flying out from behind her ears again. “Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered keeping an apartment.”

“You live alone?”

Pamela stared at Tom as if he had two heads. 

“Sorry. That was presumptuous of me.”

“No, I just…never mind,” she said, shaking her head. She tucked her shorter strands of hair behind her ears again. “I think I might…”

“I could show you around London,” Tom quickly offered when she trailed off. “I’ve nothing on today. Just have to check in with my publicist and PA, but other than that, I’m free as a bird.”

Pamela looked like a deer trapped in headlights, her brown eyes wide. Tom tried hard not to laugh. 

She was utterly adorable. 

“You don’t…I’ll be fine…I’ll just stay here.”

“And hide in Benedict’s flat all day?”

She didn’t respond.

“Come on. Have you been to London before?”

“No.”

“Well, then, you must let me show you around. Get out and see the city you’ve found yourself. Take advantage of my nicesaucity.”

She eyed him, looking somewhat suspicious. Tom put on an innocent face, made his eyes a bit wider and pleading and waited. He knew the moment she caved. Her shoulders slumped a little and her eyes got a little softer. 

“Brilliant,” he said before she could say anything. “I must nip on home. I’ll meet you outside Ben’s flat…half past twelve?”

She nodded. He sent her a huge smile, crossed the space between them and hugged her. He pulled away and said his farewells before she had any chance to react— to either his leaving or the hug. She’d been delightfully flustered and it was almost too adorable for him to bear much longer. 

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


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